Love and the Widow (pair the spares)
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: Lynwood and Queens are neighbouring districts of New York City. People living there have got extended networks of friends. These networks overlapped in two hit TV comedy shows. What happened a few years after the cameras stopped rolling... bringing in hints from canon and inferences from events in-show. Ally Barone becomes our deadpan snarker narrator.
1. The last lasagne

_**Love and the widow(er)**_

_I had this one gestating in my head after experiencing the moment of bereavement that happens when you get to the end of the run of a long-standing TV sitcom, and realise there'll never be any more of it, ever again. _

_This moment of bereavement and existential angst has happened twice. One on seeing **Everybody Loves Raymond** do its low-key fade-out on the extended Barone family at the breakfast table, with Ray admitting perhaps they need a bigger kitchen. It has happened a second time since, with the not-nearly-as-stellar sister show **King Of Queens** fading to grey on Doug and Carrie chasing around after two fractious kids, with Arthur re-appearing in the background with a suitcase casually explaining his marriage had failed and he was moving back in. _

_There'll be no more of either show, methinks. Terminally in the case of ELR, with Peter Boyle's sad death. ELR without Frank... and in the other case, Leah Remini's addiction to cosmetic surgery (did she ever really need it in the first place?) is achingly obvious. There must be a painting in an attic somewhere, behind the heaps of discarded Scientology manuals. She looks younger, in an artificial sort of way, every day... she just wouldn't ring true as Carrie any more, and not as a harrassed former career woman reduced to stay-at-home motherhood with two unruly kids and a lumbering child-man husband. It would show more in her face, and not in a good way. Especially with Arthur..._

* * *

><p><em><strong>New York University, Faculty of Sociology and Psychology.<strong>_

_**Course: Abnormal Family Dynamics.**_

_**Student name: Alexandra Barone.**_

_**Freshman Paper in Social Dynamics of the Family. **(First notes, dictated to voice-recognition function on computer)_

Hi. I'm Ally Barone. I'm eighteen years old and newly enrolled at NYU. I live at home with my family in Lynwood, Long Island, New York. My father Ray is a staff sports writer for the New York Newsday and my mother Debra works part-time for a Manhattan PR agency. I have two twin brothers, Michael and Geoffrey. Who are three years younger than me and are in High School. I grew up in Lynwood with my paternal grandparents living just over the street. This made life kinda interesting as I was growing up, but Grandfather Frank died two years ago. Grandma Marie still misses him. She denies it, but everybody knows. My other grandparents are still alive and live in upstate Connecticut, but they're separated now and with new people. My other family are my Uncle Robert, dad's brother, who's made it to Captain in the NYPD. Aunt Amy's cute, and we really get on. Sometimes I think she's my best friend in the family. Oh, and Mom has a sister. Aunt Jennifer's a nun. They've promoted her to Mother Superior, which makes Mom get really snarky and claim she's lost her faith in God, but that's Mom.

Growing up in this family was kinda interesting, and when I realised NYU offered a course in family dynamics, I had a moment of revelation as to what I wanted to do at college. There's a cool three years of material here to be studied. Sometimes I think there's a lifetime of study here. Future generations of researchers may thank me. You never know.

_ALLIE! DINNER'S READY! _

_COMING, MOM!_

Close file, lock computer against Mom reading this.

Lock computer against GRANDMA reading this. She took a course at the senior center. I'm sure she's only pretending she doesn't know how to hack files. It's Monday. Mom does lemon chicken on Mondays. Since forever. Make computer brother-proof. And Dad's just Dad. Ally Barone, logging off.

* * *

><p>"Ray, it's getting <em>worse<em>." Debra Barone said, as she served up the lemon chicken.

"Ah-huh. How so?" he replied, without looking up. "Hey, Michael. Still reading your sister's magazines, huh?"

The fifteen year old Michael Barone looked up from his copy of _**Glamour. **_Which was really Ally's. A copy of Oprah Winfrey's _**"O"**_ magazine, technically his mother's, was on the tabletop next to him.

"They're really interesting, dad." he said, defensively. His brother Geoffrey said nothing, but put on a concerned and protective face.

"Interesting or not, no reading at the table." Debra said, firmly taking it from him.

"Got the latest _**Sports Illustrated.**_" Ray said, hopefully. Geoffrey perked up. Michael shrugged, disinterestedly.

"Still no reading at the table!" Debra repeated, more insistently. But she still exchanged a slightly worried look with Ray.

"So how's it getting worse?" Ray asked, deciding to tackle the easier problem first.

"You mean you've _not noticed_?" Debra demanded, belligerently. "OK. You've lived with it all your life, you wouldn't. But since Frank... since Frank... well, she's over here more often than ever, Ray!"

"Hey, come on. It's not _every_ day. She's got Robert and Amy and their kids too. You know. She's got their lives to manage too."

"Aunt Amy keeps her after-Marie liquor in the top cupboard in the kitchen." Ally reflected. "Same place where you do, mom."

Debra glared at her daughter. After long experience, Ally could assess the moment where Mom would lose it a little and start yelling. She decided not to push it.

"So what do you find so interesting in my magazines, little brother?" she asked Michael. She suspected it wasn't, in his case, the underwear and swimming costumes, which were Geoffrey's reasons for surreptitiously flicking through them and sometimes, _squick_, taking them up to his room.

"I like the colours." Michael said, defensively. "The styles. The co-ordination."

Ray winced slightly. Ally reached over and gave her father's hand a reassuring pat.

"Look on the bright side, dad." she said. "Michael gets straight A's in Art. Mrs deStefano says she's never had a pupil like him."

Ray sighed.

"Coach Martin says he's never had a pupil like Michael, either! And not in any sort of _good_ way."

"We're all good at what we're good at, Ray." Debra said, quickly. "And I _like_ that you're good at Art, hon. And drama."

"Yeah, drama." Ray murmured. "School's putting on a kinda Broadway show this semester?"

"I'm the male lead!" Michael exclaimed, proudly.

" He gotta straight A in music, too. For singing." Ally reminded her parents.

Ray digested this.

"That play you did. The one that caused _trouble_. By the English guy."

"_**The Importance of Being Earnest**_, Ray." Debra reminded him. "And the playwright was _Irish_. Oscar Wilde."

"Yeah." Ray said, turning over a forkful of lemon chicken. "Wilde. That was Mom afterwards."

"But even in a co-ed school, dad, some womens' parts are best played by guys for comic effect." Ally said. "Lady Bracknell really _works _if it's a guy in women's clothes."

Ray and Debra winced.

"But when the clothes are kinda _borrowed_ from my mom's closet." Ray Barone said. "And nobody tells her. And she goes to the performance to see herself sitting on stage lookin' back at her."

Marie had gone poker-faced, pretending not to know what the fuss was about and wondering why people were looking at her. While her grandson played what was later heralded as a tour de force of imaginative theatre, the interfering, imperious and commanding Lady Bracknell played as an Italian-American matriarch. Words had been spoken later.

"Finish up." Debra said, giving in for the moment. "You've got your babysitting gig later."

"I had to really talk Doug Heffernan into it." Ray remarked. "He and Carrie really needed sitters. Doug just didn't think a dude should sit the babies. Didn't think it was _natural_."

"_Carrie_ did." Debra said, with quiet emphasis. "And so do _I_. They gotta get out nights. Everyone does. 'Sides, there's no reason why Michael can't sit babies. Amy and Robert think he's a great guy with theirs. And Carrie ain't leaving them with _Arthur_."

"Which is why I'm going too." Ally said. "Hey, it's like working with Grandfather Frank. You've just got to keep him in line. And Holly gave me a really long briefing in Dealing With Arthur."

"She can't sit Arthur any more." Debra said. "Not now she's got a kid of her own."

"So you two guys get double bubble." said Ray. "Little guys and infuriating old dude. I'll run you both over to Queens. Ring me when you wantta come back."

"I really miss Grand-dad Frank." Geoffrey said, wistfully.

Debra sighed. It was an elephant-in-the-room moment. Especially when contemplating the looming presence of the insensitive and boorish Frank Barone.

"I do too, hon. So do we _all_. And while he was alive I never thought I'd ever say that. Ever."

The Barone family went silent for a few moments, contemplating Frank. There'd never be another one quite like him.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Student name: Alexandra Barone.<strong>_

_**Freshman Paper in Social Dynamics of the Family. **(First notes, dictated to voice-recognition function on computer)_

And of course it isn't just my immediate family. Our in-laws, the Whelans and the McDougalls, are pretty quirky too. And then there are friends of Mom and Dad who are also interesting subjects to study. I got to know the Heffernans through Dad...


	2. Il Conzu se commence

_**Love and the widow(er)2**_

_I had this one gestating in my head after experiencing the moment of bereavement that happens when you get to the end of the run of a long-standing TV sitcom, and realise there'll never be any more of it, ever again. Ally Barone continues to analyze her family. And other families._

_**New York University, Faculty of Sociology and Psychology.**_

_**Course: Abnormal Family Dynamics.**_

_**Student name: Alexandra Barone.**_

_**Freshman Paper in Social Dynamics of the Family. **(First notes, dictated to voice-recognition function on computer)_

_But lately you live in the jungle,  
>I never see you alone;<br>But we need some definite answer,  
>So I thought I would write you a poem! <em>

Just make sure nobody's listening. Bedroom door closed. Music playing in background. I know my relatives.

Deep breath. This has gotta be the first time I've ever really talked about Grandfather Frank dying. And his funeral. You know, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross talked about how these things hit a family. About funerals being not for the dead but for the living. Hell, I gotta _read_ that woman sometime. She's on the reading list.

* * *

><p>"He went quickly, mrs Barone." Father Hobley restated. "Quickly. No pain."<p>

The Barone family priest had been called even before the doctor. Marie had known the moment she saw Frank slumped face-down on the kitchen dining table, face buried in his lasagne. In fact, it had been Father Hobley who'd called 911 for the ambulance.

"Mrs Barone? Please? You have to leave him as he is. For the moment." the priest had said, preventing her from un-slumping him and tidying his face.

"He's right, ma." Robert had added. He had heard the commotion and come into the kitchen. Amy was with him, weeping softly. She was the only one who was weeping.

"There are _procedures,_ ma." Robert repeated. "Somebody, you know, goes..." he composed himself. "cops don't like it if you mess with the scene. Even if it's natural causes."

"How can it be _messing _if I wash his face, Robbie?" Marie complained. "I don't want the cops to come in and see him wallowing face-down in a lasagne like a pig. We got standards, Robbie!"

"Mom, the cops have _already_ seen him!" Robert said, insistently. "_I'm_ a cop, remember? Right here and now, I can do the cop stuff. I'm sorta _qualified_ to do that? I'm now a Captain? Whoever the precinct sends out, I'll write a statement. Tell them it's a bona-fide case of natural causes. Hospital does an autopsy..." Robert composed himself again. "Confirms this. Looks like massive sudden coronary event. Natural causes. No need for official involvement. But please don't touch him till the ambulance has been. Want me to go get Raymond and Debra?"

Father Hobley was donning a stole. He reached for a breviary. Amy watched. She was not a Catholic christian.

"Father... he's already dead?" she questioned.

Hobley smiled at her.

"Canon law, my dear." he said. "You can't assume. My job is to assume something of Frank Barone is still there and can respond to the Last Rites. The four last things that even your church preaches? Death, Judgement, Heaven and Hell?"

He leant closer to Amy and whispered

"Between you and me he's dead as a doornail. But you still have to _try_. Do me a favour, girl, and chime in loud and clear whenever you see the word "Amen" coming down the line."

* * *

><p>Later on, Raymond Barone took the news with quiet resignation.<p>

"Face down in the lasagne, huh. Well, I guess it's the way he always wanted to go."

Debra kicked his ankle.

"I'm so sorry, Marie." she said, ritually. Marie Barone dabbed her eyes with a cloth. Ray and Robert noted her face was remarkably dry.

"He didn't eat it all." she said, flatly. "So I don't believe he's gone yet. Knowing Frank, he'll be back to haunt me, demanding to know where the other half of the lasagne went to."

Ray paused. It sounded horribly plausible. Debra froze dead. The notion of an unquiet Frank Barone coming back from the grave to demand food... she shuddered.

"Do you do exorcisms, Father?" Ray asked Hobley.

"RAY!" Debra yelled.

"Gotta be sure..." Ray mumbled.

The old priest grinned.

"Too early in the day for that. It's in the book, anyway." He patted the breviary.

"This is the Idiot Guide to being a Catholic priest." he explained to Amy. "You get a free copy when you graduate seminary. Covers everything."

Amy grinned. Anything to lighten the mood was welcome.

"There's a country called Wales." Hobley reflected. "Over there, they've got a custom called sin-eating. You lay a meal out on top of the coffin and whoever elects to eat it takes on the sin of the deceased. All of it. That way the loved one gets to Heaven with a clean slate. Pagan custom with a Christian gloss, naturally, but the Welsh believe in it, and the Church there looks the other way." He smiled genially at Amy, a lone Protestant in a Catholic family.

"It's the way the Church has always done things, my dear."

Ray digested this.

"With Dad, better lay on a six-course restaurant dinner with cheeseboard."

"Last Rites with home cooking." Robert mused. "Sounds cool."

Marie perked up. She even smiled. Mention of food took her this way; food was her life, her expertise, the outward symbol of her mastery of her life. And of other peoples' lives.

"Ach, we've got something like that in the old country!" she said. _"il conzu."_

And she was Marie Barone again, looking down disapprovingly at the lasagne splatters on the table where Frank normally sat.

"I better clean that up." she resolved. Frank had left the house in the slow ambulance, the one with the blacked-out windows and no siren, a little earlier. After formalities at the hospital were done, he would go to Condottiere E Figlie, the family funeral directors.

"Father? I don't want to offer food in this kitchen after..." her voice faltered for an instant. "Could you perform a blessing on the kitchen as I clean?"

* * *

><p>Mom and Dad called us together later and broke the news. Michael cried. Geoffrey looked stunned. Me, I thought of Grandfather Frank, who'd been there since forever. How big he was, how he could get frightening when he was angry, how greedy he was at table, how Dad was scared of him, and even Uncle Robert looked small when he was around. How I'd once had to tell Frank off for stealing from a shop, and he'd gone back to apologise.<p>

"Face-down in a tray of lasagne." Mom said. "Yep, that's natural causes for Frank." I guess now, she was resigned and bitter. Mom liked Frank in an odd kinda way, even if he was a great big pain in the ass to her. And I heard him say to Mom once he'd regretted not having daughters. Far as he was concerned, Mom and Aunt Amy were his daughters. Mom was kinda touched by that. And compared to grandfather Whelan, Frank was... well, bigger. Larger. In-your-face. Hard hole to fill.

Anyway, after the death came the mourning. Right now I gotta say I define myself as American first. I'm an American girl with a bit of Italian ancestry on my father's side. Hell, my other side are Whelans, and that's an Irish name, but I'm not running for a passport with a harp on it, either. I speak about twenty phrases of stock Italian. I'm sure if and when I have kids, they'll speak less. It's five generations back from me that my family lived in Italy. (Or County Tyrone, if it comes to that). Look at our name: we pronounce it Ba-RONE, two syllables. Most of the Italian-speaking world says "Ba-ROH-Neh" and sounds the "e". Three syllables. Only in New York – and one part of Italy – does it get pronounced our way.

And I was about to learn about funeral customs from that part of Italy. Boy, was I about to learn. We Americans are squeamish about death. We know it happens. We just like it to happen to other people, for preference. If it wasn't for that we wouldn't have cop shows on TV. And that those other people are discreetly reticent about it when it does and don't unduly advertise the fact it's happened, as if it's contagious, or something. Italians do the opposite. If you're kinda in the middle, like Dad, you get pulled both ways at once. Being pulled both ways at once explains a lot about Dad. And about Uncle Robert.

* * *

><p>Marie Barone did not start grieving all at once. Her daughter-in-law Debra, a former psychology student, speculated she went through the five stages <em>very, very, quickly<em> in the interim between Frank's death and the funeral.

Marie took to wearing black the very next morning. She also crossed the road to 320 Fowler Avenue and took over Debra's kitchen.

"I hope you don't mind, dear." she said, bustling in with a huge box of kitchen accessories. "it's just that I feel uncomfortable about cooking in my own kitchen after... last night."

Debra took a deep breath and reasoned that if Ray had dropped dead in _her_ kitchen, she, Debra, would _also_ feel pretty ambivalent about it.

"No, go right ahead. Marie. I understand." she said.

"Thank you, dear. Now after I've _cleaned up_ the place, I can start cooking here. Where do you keep your cleaning things? No, don't trouble yourself. I'll go and get mine."

Debra took a deep breath and looked speculatively at a certain upper cupboard, way out of the kids' reach. It was going to be a long few days before the funeral.

"I've got to cook, dear." Marie insisted. "Even if Frank's not around for a while... any more. I don't see why I shouldn't try to carry on as normal."

_Denial,_ thought Debra. _Hell, Anger's next. _She went to try to explain the five-stages model to Ray. To her surprise, Ally grasped the concept way before her father did.

"So... right now Grandma's going to try to carry on as if Grand-dad was still here?" Ally asked. "And then she'll realise he's not coming back and she'll get angry about it?"

"Yep." Debra said. "I tell you, kid, God's in for a hard time."

"Twice over." agreed Ray. "If the Last Rites took, He's got Pa up there now shouting for his morning manna and wondering where the Hell the kitchen-angel's got to with his breakfast eggs. And now He gets Ma prayin' up to complain."

Debra glared at him. Robert, who'd lurched over in search of breakfast, sighed.

"Always assuming they let him in. Ain't Saint Peter there for a reason?"

"Saint Peter? Bet he's a lodge-brother. Pa just needs to give him the handshake on the door. 'Sides, can you see the other guy taking Pa? They say Hell's fussy about who they let in..."

"Ray, that will DO." Debra said, suppressing the need to yell. "Kids are listening!"

Geoffrey gave a little giggle. He stopped when his mother glared at him.

"Sorry, mom." he apologised. "It's just Grandpa. With horns and a trident. I can't see him with a halo and a harp. Not Grandpa."

Then Geoffrey snorted and began crying. Debra ran to him.

"It'll take us all like this. Sometime." Ray said, subdued, as if the reality were sinking in. Robert suddenly looked more forlorn and hang-dog than ever.

"At least I can go to work. Put it aside for a while." he rumbled.

"Ain't you taking sick days? Compassionate leave?" Ray asked. Robert shook his head.

"There are only so many Captains. Gotta be there." he said. "You can dust down that eulogy you wrote. That's your trade. Me, I got to keep the lid on a buncha guys tryin' to keep the lid on a city. That ain't gonna slow just because my father died last night."

There was a reflective silence while Debra comforted her sons. Ally stood up.

"I'm gonna see how Grandma's getting on in the kitchen." she said. "you know, to help out. How's Aunt Amy? Does she need a hand with baby Raymond?"

Robert grimaced.

"My son and heir. Raymond." he said. "Everyone said we can call the _next_ one Robert."

Robert and Amy could have done little else. Family politics meant the choices were limited. With two grandfathers quietly, or in Frank's case not so quietly, agitating for the child to be called after him, they had opted for the tactful third way of naming the child after a different male relative so as not to offend the losing grandfather. Living as nominal owners of 319 Fowler Avenue – but in reality its tenants after Frank and Marie moved back in – their room for manouevre was limited. As indeed was their scope for independent naming. Marie had performed as expected, and continual subtle and unsubtle hints on her part had given the child Marie's chosen name. _Raymond._ Marie had graciously conceded his middle name could be whatever the parents selected. Robert and Amy had elected for Peter, after her own brother. Little Raymond Peter was his grandmother's firm favourite. Ally got to sit him where a sitter was called for. She adored her baby cousin.

"That's thoughtful, Ally." said Deborah. "Ask Grandma if she needs any company or help, then if she doesn't, go over the street and check on Amy. She was pretty tore up about this."

Debra hugged Geoffrey and stood up.

"I got a funeral to plan." she decided.

"So you're off to the liquor store?" Ray asked, unwisely. Debra drew breath for a tirade.

"For the FUNERAL!" Ray said, alarmed. "For the FUNERAL! People gotta have a drink at a FUNERAL!"

"Makes sense." Robert agreed. "Italian funeral. Big event. Lotsa people."

"Yeah. A whole buncha people gonna show." agreed Ray. "They'll want to be sure he's dead."

"RAY!" Debra said, warningly.

* * *

><p>Later in the day, Amy and Debra tried to take over looking after the widow. Cradling Raymond Peter in her arms, Marie admitted her daughters-in-law were good girls.<p>

"We need to get organised, Marie." Debra said. "Would it help if, you know, we rang round people? Broke the news? The guys at the Lodge are going to need to know."

"Oh. Them. Very well." Marie said, indifferently. "Better order lots of food for the party. _I'll_ cook, Debra!"

"Marie, forgive me if I'm being insensitive." Amy said, diffidently. Debra thought her old friend looked more like an easily-startled hamster then ever.

Marie glanced at Debra, then smiled at Amy.

"_You_ were never insensitive, dear." she said, encouragingly.

"There are going to be loose ends to tie up. Frank must have left a will? Insurance policies?"

"I've checked. Last night. Top drawer in the bureau. You and Robert get the house, by the way."

Amy took a deep breath, and chose not to remind Marie they _already_ owned the house. Technically, Marie was a sitting tenant. But only technically.

Marie returned her grandson to his mother. Something about the gesture said the child was only on loan.

"My little Raymond." she said. "I'm doubly blessed. But the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away."

"Amen." Amy said, automatically.

"Book of Job, right?" Debra asked. Marie gave her a brief smile.

"Yes, dear. But at least I'm no longer responsible for his plague of boils..."

And then Marie Barone wept a little, for the first time. Debra and Amy wept with her.

* * *

><p>After expressing a little grief, Marie decided it was time to begin <em>Il Conzu. <em>

She explained to two daughters-in-law who were not of Sicilian blood that this was the old custom. There was no reason to abandon it just because they lived in the United States. Ally, allowed compassionate leave from her High School, was called over to have it explained to her so that one day, in hopefully the very far future, she'd know what to do. Bereavement notices, in Italian and English, were drafted for the local and statewide papers. Ray Barone's heartfelt cry of _Oh, mom!_ was heard throughout the house, as Marie informed him she'd spoken to the Classified Ads editor of _**Newsday **_and claimed a discount, ideally a free insert, on the grounds that her son worked for the paper and some sort of staff discount must apply. Ray then cut the call, as apparently his Editor was at the sports department door asking to see him. Along with the Classified Advertising manager.

A chalkboard and easel was placed at the end of the drive at 319 Fowler. In Italian and English, it announced the sad passing of Francesco "Frank" Barone, stated the house was in mourning, and those who wished to pay respects were very welcome to drop by, view the deceased, and take food and drink with the bereaved family.

"Errr,,, _view the deceased_?" Amy and Debra inquired. They hadn't been told of this. Marie raised an eyebrow.

"Of course, dears. Is there anything wrong with that? It's part of _il conzu_."

The funeral hearse arrived on cue. As other surprised residents of Fowler Avenue looked on, a casket was delivered by representatives of Condottiere e Figlie, Funeral Directors to New York's Italian community since 1887. They knew what was expected. Four men carried the casket indoors, with two more following on with wooden trestles. Nothing re-emerged.

Debra took a deep breath, remembering family legend of great wakes down the Whelan family line. She'd never actually _been _to one, but she was Irish-American enough to respect a shared tradition. She wondered how exciteable Italian mourners could get over drinks at a wake. Amy, whose religious and social tradition at funerals excluded this, looked appalled.

"Hey, it's nearly winter." Debra said, soothingly. "And the central heating's gonna be off, right?"

Amy nodded, miserably. Ally looked on, fascinated. Observers in the street had now registered that a coffin had arrived but nothing had come out again. By the looks on their faces, appalled deductions were being drawn. Marie and her family conversed in Italian with the funeral directors, there were handshakes and kisses on both cheeks, and the hearse drew off. Empty, for now.

And now." Marie said. "_Il _ conzu_ se commence_." she led the three others back into the house to pay first respects to the newly deceased. A crowd began to form in the street outside.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Freshman Paper in Social Dynamics of the Family. <strong>(First notes, dictated to voice-recognition function on computer)_

_Jungle love!_

_Is driving me mad!_

_Is making me crazy..._

I was fifteen. It was the first time I'd seen a dead guy. Aunt Amy looked sick. Mom had her stone face on where it's hard to tell what she's thinking. That's a neat trick. Dad says I can do it just like Mom. Grandma looked sad and old for a while. Not Grandma at all. And Grandfather Frank... well, Mom said the morticians did a hell of a job. He was dead, I knew that. Something had gone. But he could just have been sleeping off a big dinner, except he wasn't snoring like a hog and his pants were zipped up and his belt was done up. I wasn't going to say that, though. Dad did, and Mom slapped him. Then Grandma poured us all glasses of something called _limoncella. _It tasted like strong flat lemonade with an edge on it. Later on I realised that was a rite of passage too. I'd seen my first dead person, a family member, then had my first grown-up adult drink, with my mom, my aunt and my grandma. It was like becoming an adult woman without too much ickiness.


	3. Waking The Dead

_**Love and the widow(er)3**_

_I had this one gestating in my head after experiencing the moment of bereavement that happens when you get to the end of the run of a long-standing TV sitcom, and realise there'll never be any more of it, ever again. Ally Barone continues to analyze her family. And other families. The focus alters here to a different family dynamic, but one possibly even more dysfunctional..._

_**3121 Aberdeen Street, Queens, New York: **_

"DOUG!" Carrie called up the stairs. "Aren't you ready YET!"

She resumed impatient pacing around the living room. She ached for a cigarette, but fought down the temptation. Hell, wasn't it the _woman _who had the right to be late in gettin' ready to go out?

"Hey, what's the big rush?" Doug demanded from upstairs. "The guy ain't gonna be getting any deader! And last time I checked, he wasn't called Lazarus!"

Carrie took a deep breath and forced herself to remain calm. The kids were with Holly, right? And Arthur could be trusted to come over to Lynwood in his own good time. She hoped. He knew the address. She just hoped he didn't try to hit on the widow. Carrie had _met_ the widow. She tried persuasion.

"Doug. We are going to an Italian thing here. Your friend Ray Barone, right? His father died? You gotta be there. And I want some face time with Debra."

Carrie Heffernan and Debra Barone had kinda bonded from their first meeting. A shared suspicion they'd both married idiots was part of the deal. And they both had infuriating elderly relatives. And latterly, children. Nothing bonded quite like adversity. Carrie had learnt a lot about dealing with kids from interacting with Debra. It was vital knowledge. And these days, Debra's eldest was a sitter of choice. Ally was one smart kid. She watched everything and nothing escaped her. She thought before she spoke. She was one cool kid. Carrie liked her.

Carrie took a deep breath.

"Doug. You do realise the Italian thing means we pay respects to the dead, right? And when that's done, there's free food? A sort of eat-as-much-as-you-can, we're Italians, we get offended if you don't, running buffet? View the corpse is your ticket, then it's chow time!"

There was noise above that signified somebody getting a move on. Carrie smiled, contentedly. The free-food gambit always worked with Doug. He was so _predictable_...

She placidly straightened Doug's tie.

"Ready?" she said. "Let's go."

"All this for an old geezer who rear-ended my car and tried to weasel out of payin' insurance by blamin' it on me." Doug grumbled.

"Who is the father of your friend Ray." Carrie reminded him. "Whatever you think of Frank Barone, a lot of family are hurtin' right now. Least we can do is to _show_."

She picked up her purse and paused to check out her new black outfit. She suspected Marie Barone would subtly criticise her for showing too much leg and cleavage at her husband's wake. Or conzu. Or whatever the Sicilian word was for it. She shrugged. It didn't bother her. Marie was Marie. And her food was _famous_. They left for the car together.

"'Sides, Ray Barone paid for the car repairs. Said he'd try to get the money back from his father. That's a decent sorta guy, you know? You _got_ to go to his father's wake, Doug."

"Conzu."

"Whatever."

"I'll drop the bill for car repairs into the casket. He can take it to wherever he's goin' with him. Hey, hope it's fireproof."

"Doug, listen to me. _It's not about you_."

They quietly bickered throughout the short drive to Lynwood. It was a staple of Heffernan family life.

* * *

><p><em><strong>New York University, Faculty of Sociology and Psychology.<strong>_

_**Course: Abnormal Family Dynamics.**_

_**Student name: Alexandra Barone.**_

_**Freshman Paper in Social Dynamics of the Family. **(First notes, dictated to voice-recognition function on computer)_

Right, choose suitable music to make it difficult for people to listen at the door. I know my family. I know my parents. I know my grandmother. She was sniffing round up here on the pretence of gathering laundry for washing. That makes me kinda _suspicious_. Turn it up, loud but not too loud:

_All our times have come;_

_Here, but now they're gone..._

Get my paper-writing-for-college-voice on. Talk _formal_, Ally. Here goes. Southern Italy and Sicily respect the tradition of _il conzu_. It has many features in common with the Irish wake, an opportunity to mourn the deceased, celebrate his or her life, and have a massive family get-together, with all this entails in terms of long-simmering arguments and feuds emerging. The centerpiece of the _conzu _is the casket or coffin containing the deceased, who, paradoxically, is guest of honor at their own party. Italian tradition is that the casket should be open, or at least, have a removable upper lid so that the head and shoulders of the deceased are visible for inspection and final regards. I understand in Northern Europe, especially Ireland, the coffin is completely closed throughout. Ireland is also a temperate northern European nation where a wake may go on for up to five days. In Southern Europe it is necessarily shorter, as Italy in particular is a far warmer climate, hot and humid in summer months. This leads to a wake of no longer than two days, for a reason I hope I do not need to have to spell out.

_Seasons don't fear the Reaper,_

_Nor do the snow, the wind or the rain,_

_(We can be as they are)_

Italian immigrants to the United States in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries brought the traditions of Home with them. As New York can also be hot in the summer months, the tradition of the two, or at most three-day, _conzu_ came with them. My grandfather died in early November when the weather is turning from fall to winter. Even so, my grandmother thought a two-day _conzu _was most prudent. Our neighbors on Fowler Avenue, most of whom are from non-Italian backgrounds and traditions, also made their feelings on the matter clear to Grandma. _However_, they all came to give their final respects to Frank Barone, even the Parkers, our near-neighbours, and of course to partake in Grandma's hospitality. I noticed none of them expressed an objection to free food and drink.

_Romeo and Juliet are together in eternity;_

_Forty thousand men and women every day;_

_Another forty thousand come in every day;_

_(We can be like they are)_

_Come on, baby,_

_(Don't fear the reaper)_

That choice of music isn't accidental. I got it from Dad's sounds collection. I read one of the guys who performed this song died recently. Instead of "RIP", people started using "DFTR" at his funeral and it's kind of catching on. Internet meme. "Don't Fear The Reaper" - DFTR. It's another way of marking death as a rite of passage. Traditions evolve. And they all work for the people left behind. Here comes the big instrumental break, I'll let it record...

_Came the last night of sadness,_

_And it was clear she couldn't go on;_

_And the door flew open and a wind appeared; _

_The candles blew and then disappeared;_

_The curtains flew and then He appeared_

_(And she had no fear);_

_And she ran to him_

_(Then they started to fly);_

_They looked backward and said goodby;_

_She had taken his hand_

_(she had become as they are)_

_Come on, baby_

_(Don't fear the Reaper)_

One day they'll play that at funerals. It's kinda comforting. I'd like something like this played at mine. That last guitar break is like a fanfare of trumpets.

* * *

><p><em><strong>319 Fowler Avenue, Lynwood, New York<strong>_

The principal Barone residence was full of people, largely women belonging to the extended Barone family and friends and acquaintances, not all of them Italian. Wishing he could have found an excuse to get the Hell out of there and onto a nice sane golf course, Ray Barone walked cautiously in. He noted his mother was safely surrounded by women of her own age, who were offering condolences and surreptitiously checking to see their own husbands were still alive, where this applied. He sneaked cautiously past, watching Amy, Ally and others running relays to the kitchen for more and more food. Barone family gatherings had this consolation about them. There was always food. And it was _good _food.

About to sneak a canole, he yelped. A long lean woman, not unattractive with a large vulture nose, paused in hanging a black drape and grinned at him.

"You?" he yelped.

"Why not me?" Peggy asked, sweetly. "I'm a neighbor. I've got Italian blood. I'm with Peter McDougall."

She indicated a guy who would look, even in the driest weather, like a bedraggled mouse.

"Hi, Ray." Peter said.

"Peter is Amy's brother. Amy is married to _your_ brother. Which means I got a family link to the Barones."

Peggy made as if to return to draping a portrait of Frank in black chintz, then said, reflectively,

"I brought cookies."

Without warning, her right hand swept round as if to slap Ray on the butt. He made a high-pitched yelp and flinched forward by about two feet. Peggy pulled her slap and laughed. Looking around, Ray saw Debra was laughing too. So was Ally. He felt strangely let down.

"Just makin' a point." Peggy said, sweetly, then returned to drape-hanging.

"Hey, dude!"

Ray turned and saw the odd couple who were Doug and Carrie Heffernan coming in. As usual, Carrie stole the show. Doug just looked awkward, like an oversized teenage boy forced into his first suit and tie. Carrie wore mourning black as if she were doing it a great big favor, and it showed. Again, Ray wondered how the heck those two had got together. Then he thought about the awkwardness of his first fumbling approaches to Debra, and realised a fundamental truth: _it's never the guy who decides. Women get to choose. And for whatever reason, Debra and Carrie chose us. _

"Hey. You!" Ray replied.

Ray and Doug high-fived. Carrie and Debra went through the kiss-kiss, cheek-cheek thing women did.

"Was that woman about to slap you on the butt?" Doug asked, curiously. Ray grimaced.

"Yeah. Long story. Ally's old girlscout leader. We go back a few years. She's kinda family now."

Doug rubbed his hands together.

"That the spread?" he asked. "Hey, your mom sure can cook!"

"Doug..." Carrie said, without turning her head.

"Something to do first." Ray said. "Italian funeral. You know? I'm just hoping it ain't gonna ruin your appetite."

This time it was Debra, without missing a beat in her conversation with Carrie, who said "Ray!" as a gentle warning.

Ray shook his head and led Doug into another room. The centerpiece was a casket held up on trestles. Their rough wood had been hidden under the ever-present black draping. The half-lid coffin was open at one end; the rest was draped in the Italian and American flags.

"Huh." Doug said, in an embarrassed quiet, unsure of what to say. He looked down at the earthly remains of Frank Barone, a testimony to the mortician's art. "Guy looks healthier than he did when he was alive."

"Ah-huh." Ray said, wondering why in this time and place he felt no grief.

"Guy gonna be cremated?" Doug asked. Ray winced slightly.

"Hell, no. Italian funeral. That means the horse-drawn catafalque with the black plumes. Strictly burial."

"Just as well." said Doug. "Else he'd be road-hoggin' the crematorium conveyor, you know? Shuntin' the coffin in front and giving it a fender-bender."

Ray recalled the time his parents' car had smashed through the front wall of his house. Uneasily, he wondered if his father could manage that in his coffin.

"Condolence book's over here. Don't want anyone to suffer more than they have to." Ray said, awkwardly. Doug signed, leaving a space for Carrie to add her name.

"Did you ever get the cash back from your old man? For my car repairs?"

Ray smiled wanly.

"What do _you_ think? Come on, some of the guys are here. There's beer."

* * *

><p>"Er... mrs Barone?"<p>

Marie turned to face her neighbor Mr Parker. Sensing discord, several Barone women flanked her. The extended Barone family was full of feuds, simmering resentments, and arguments going back years, even generations. They were Italian, after all. But if threatened by an outsider, _every _Barone would unite to face down an external threat. With all the mercy of a steel-jawed gin-trap.

Bill Parker gulped slightly. He sensed the support from other Fowler Avenue neighbors fading away. But he was committed.

"May I express my most sincere condolences on your loss... umm... it must be a troubling and a very sad time for you. And the hospitality at this time is marvelous. But... umm..."

"Go on." Marie invited him. Ally Barone, interested, was at her grandmother's side, something tolerated by the older women. Ally would have to do this some day, after all. It was well she knew the traditions now. Which included stonily glaring at a troublesome outsider who wasn't even Italian.

"But...umm... do you really think it's seemly to have all this food in the same room as... well... the mortal remains?"

Marie said nothing, but her eyes displayed a lack of empathy. If anything, they narrowed. Bill Parker carried on digging a hole for himself.

"I mean... the residents' committee... a dead body in the house... human remains... health considerations... we were wondering, er... "

"The funeral will be in two days' time." Marie said, drawing herself upwards and outwards and giving a very good impression of a woman a foot taller. "Until then, _Frank stays here_."

She turned, indicating the conversation was closed. Parker retreated, having done his best. He'd even solicited Captain Robert Barone concerning the _legality_ of the situation.

"Well, whaddya want me to do?" Robert had replied. "Believe it or not, no laws are being broken. Not unless the body is deliberately abandoned, illegally buried, or neglected. And by "neglect", I mean as in some cases I've seen as a cop where, for instance, the death has not been reported and the relatives have carried on drawing welfare and pensions as if the deceased were still alive. Up to _years_, in some cases. I'm sure I don't need to draw you a picture? Or I could take you down the precinct and show you scene-of-crime photos, and I warn you they ain't pretty. No? That's the difference, you see? And we in the NYPD do not interfere with accepted cultural and ethnic ceremony. That's a surefire way to provoke grievance, you dig?"

No, the neighbors just had to put up with the last middle finger Frank Barone was gonna give them. And like it. Robert watched Parker's retreating back, uncrossed his fingers, and felt grateful he hadn't had to bring up the mass fight he'd had to break up at a Puerto Rican funeral, where grief and alcohol had escalated into a really big breach of the peace.

And now he was watching the guys from the lodge paying their tribute. Albert was solemnly laying out a US Army sidecap on the closed half of the casket, on the American flag, together with crossed gloves and a pistol holster. He nodded, soberly. That was allowed. Even mandatory. Pa had seen active service in Korea, after all. He was a vet. But something was wrong...

Robert stepped forward, ignored the cry of "Hey!", and lifted the pistol holster, It felt suspiciously _heavy..._

"Hey, Bobby, that's nearly sacrilege!"

"Grave-robbing!" agreed another Lodger.

"I don't see Pa turning in his grave." Robert grated, with, as they all had to accept, some accuracy. "There's a real pistol in this."

"So? He's entitled. Show some respect!" Albert said, hotly. Then went very quiet as Robert, with intense care, unloaded the gun.

He held out a palm full of glistening shells.

"You guys could have checked the weapon was empty _first._" Robert said, with icy calm. "What the hell? You guys, strong drink, and a loaded gun? I'm impounding these shells."

There was desultory argument. But Robert was a senior cop, in full dress uniform. He returned the unloaded gun to the holster, replaced it carefully on the coffin, adjusted its set, then stepped back and saluted, with ponderous majesty.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, Doug, Ray and the guys had retreated to the kitchen, to be near to the source of food, drink a few beers, and reminisce about Frank. It was an ideal place to be. The women let them be and tolerated them, and they had first choice of the freshest food. Occasionally Marie popped by to smile warmly and exhort them to eat. This was what funerals should be <em>about<em>, after all.

All conversation stopped in the main room. There was a reverent _"Jeez-a-lu!"_ from a Lodge member. It sounded so like Frank that Debra was startled. Carrie nudged Debra's arm.

"Who the heck is _that_?" she breathed. Debra shrugged.

"Stefania. Family friend. Might have ended up married to Robert at one point." Debra looked round. "Sorry, Amy." she added, quickly.

"Hey, he married _me_." Amy said.

"Who's the little guy with her?" Carrie pressed. "Legs up to her ass, with that little guy on her arm, twenty years older, with a really good tailor..." Carrie paused. She was streetwise. "He's Mob, right? Mafia? Local _sotto-cappo_?"

Debra smiled.

"We all wonder that. He's her dad. Signor Marco Fogagnolo. Hates Robert. Another reason why they broke up."

"A local businessman and man of affairs." said Amy. "A man of _respect_."

She had learnt a lot about Italian-Americans through Robert. It was vital knowledge. Amy sometimes suspected, like Debra, she'd married into the Mob. People wondered that about the Barone family, headed as it was by a woman who frequently made offers people could not refuse.

"Ah-huh." Carrie nodded. "Just tryin' to make him as one of the Five Families. Law practice I worked for once, did business for the Lucchese. But I'd make that guy as one of the Bonanno. Somethin' about him. Name _Fogagnolo_ rings bells, too."

"You can tell?" Debra asked.

"Hey, I worked for lawyers." Carrie said. "Honey, they're the _sixth _Mafia family in this city!" She ticked them off on her fingers. "The Columbo. The Genovese. The Bonanno. The Gambino. The Lucchese. And worst and nastiest Family of all, the one that makes the Sicilian Maf look like pussycats, the New York Bar Association. Trust me. I know whereof I speak!"

Debra nudged Carrie urgently.

"Carrie? People around here may be talking Italian. But they can listen in English."

The three women went for more drinks. Carrie was enjoying herself. Funerals could be _fun_...

* * *

><p>"I liked him." Stefania Fogagnolo said, tears streaming down her cheeks. "He was... somehow real. You know?"<p>

Her father had signed the book and was presenting real and sincere sympathy to the widow Barone. If there was anything, any little service, he could perform for the new widow, however large or small, she was to let him know. Ally noted the degree of respect accorded to the grave and unsmiling little man, impeccably dressed and styled in the best Italian fashion. She felt moved to take the glamorous older woman by the hand.

"You are kind, Ally. I thank you."

_It can't be easy, being a daughter of a man with unspecified business interests in the Italian community. Mom thinks the reason Stefania is still single is that her father frightens men off. Or warns them off. In his eyes, nobody is good enough. And he would not have liked a policeman as son-in-law. Who'd be drop-dead gorgeous? We all want it, but if you have it, it's a curse. And here's Mom..._

"Hey, Stefania. Come and have a drink with us. This is Carrie."

Ally was left child-minding again. She sighed. But it was her expected role here._ In an Italian family, everyone has an assigned role..._

* * *

><p>"I do wish people wouldn't put their drinks on Frank." Marie complained. And on top of the Flag, too. Show some respect and for once in his life, treat him like he was <em>people<em>."

As the house filled, the casket had become one more flat surface to rest glasses on. Ray hastened to reassure his mother.

"Big turn-out, ma." he said. "lots of people must miss Frank."

"Really, dear?" his mother said, sceptically. "Half of them are only here to make sure he's dead. And this is me talking!"

"I'm takin' care of the other things, Ma." Robert said, joining them.

"The other things?" Ray asked. Robert grimaced.

"Practically every guy from the Lodge is claiming Dad owed him money. I been telling them to bring proof to me and not to worry Ma."

Ray frowned. It was horribly, horribly, plausible.

"Does he?"

"What do you think? When I went out lookin' at their cars and noting infractions and violations, some of the guys retracted and said not to worry about it. I said I'd refrain from callin' up Traffic and citin' car numbers, with a view to callin' in unpaid speeding and parking fines."

Robert smiled, mirthlessly.

"I'm a cop, Ray. Cop can't find an issue with a car, _any _car, that calls in a fine, that cop's not lookin'. But Ma, there're still two or three guys who still insist Dad owed them, even after I kinda hinted I could call in fines and penalties that would wipe out the profit. Or get their cars towed as unfit. Or else have a patrol waitin' at the top of the road to do drink-driving checks. I'd guess they're genuine creditors. Might be good to pay them. Averages out as two hundred dollars a guy."

Marie Barone nodded, imperiously.

"Tell me their names, Robbie. I'll go and have words with their wives."

She paused. Then said, in a grating voice

"Who. Let. _Harriet Lichman_. In?"

"Mom..." Ray said, despairingly. He knew his mother's paranoia about Harriet Lichman. "There's only one way Harriet Lichman could run away with Dad now. And she couldn't carry the casket on her own."

Marie sighed.

"Let her stay." she said. "so she knows I won in the end and Frank died my husband."

And Marie Barone smiled happily, having got the last word.

* * *

><p>And back in Queens, Arthur Spooner laid back on the sofa in the Heffernans' living room, watching TV and placidly waiting for Carrie and Doug to come back. He'd been invited, as one who'd met most of the Barone family at one time or another. He certainly liked the little girl Ally, who made him think fondly of Holly Schupmann, only sharper and brighter. But that godammned Lodge was out in force and he was blackballing them as a matter of pride. Certainly not the other way around. He took his ease, hoping Carrie had thought to fill a takeaway bag for him. He'd heard of the reputation of Barone food. But this was a matter of <em>pride.<em>

* * *

><p>"Your father's not here?" Debra Barone asked Carrie Heffernan. Carrie shook her head.<p>

"Ah-huh." she said. "You'd think he would be. Old guys keep score by going to funerals for other old guys who've dropped out. It's a hobby, I guess. And free food. That's an old-guy magnet, usually. We said he'd be welcome, but when he heard the Lodge were gonna be here, he got sulky. Apparently they turned him down as a member. Said he wasn't the right sort and wasn't of sufficiently good character. He kinda takes things like that to heart."

Amy's jaw dropped open in surprise.

"They _do_ refuse people?"

"They blackballed Arthur J. Spooner." Carrie said, simply.

Amy and Debra looked at each other. The idea of the Caribou Lodge considering a potential member was not of sufficient standing in the community and was so deficient of character that not even the other guys in the Lodge wanted him as a member was... horrifying.

Stefania was slow to get the idea, but said, in her careful English, that another uncle had been refused entry to La Cosa Nostra because the members considered him a little crazy in the head. Was this the same thing?

"Pretty much. Yep." Carrie said, cheerfully.

"Let's get a drink." Debra said, firmly. As one, the four women moved towards the amply-stocked bar.

* * *

><p><strong><em>OK, I've been trying to avoid footnotes. Can't do it. Assorted ideas: the names "Umberto Fogagnolo" and "Marco Fogagnolo" appear on historical lists of Mafia members from Sicily and Naples who emigrated to the USA and joined Families in New York. for the producers of ELR, when casting and naming Stefania's slightly sinister scary father, this cannot have been wholly coincidental. <em>**

**_Carrie Heffernan is a streetwise New Yorker and former juvenile delinquent who got streetwise very quickly and continued a life of minor crime by becoming a legal secretary to a law firm. Although not Italian, she'd be very likely to recognise Mob when she sees it._**

**_Any readers familiar with Terry Pratchett's Discworld will spot similarities to Gytha "Nanny" Ogg in my description of Marie Barone, and of the wider Ogg family in my take on the Barones. This is not accidental. Marie is a more genteel, less promiscuous, Gytha Ogg with a magical way with food and a domineering manner over sons and mere daughters-in-law. Debra Barone would find many points of familiarity among women who marry into the Ogg family._**

**_Allen Lanier, keyboards player with the Blue Oyster Cult, did not write the song "Don't Fear The Reaper". He did have to do with arranging and producing it. After his recent death, DFTR, as opposed to RIP, became something of an internet meme. As Ally Barone notes, traditions grow and evolve. _**


End file.
